Duped
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: A simple exorcism goes terribly wrong.


**Duped**  
**K Hanna Korossy**

To be fair, the duppy was pretty gruesome.

Not that Sam was squeamish. Years of hunting had mostly burned that out of him, although there were still a few things that made him queasy. Maggots. Burn victims. Baby spit-up, to Dean's great glee, although, seriously, milky vomit? How was that not stomach-turning, no matter how small the spewer?

But monsters didn't usually get to him. And the duppy wasn't even technically a monster, just the twisted ghost of an old Jamaican gangster that was trying to get its revenge even after death. It'd taken them two days to even figure out what it was, corporeal spirits being rare, let alone a Jamaican one more than a thousand miles from its roots. But an exorcism was pretty much an exorcism. Even if every line of this one Dean uttered of this one revealed more and more of the duppy's hideous true form as it writhed and wailed.

That didn't really explain why Sam's disgust had turned to a full-blown gag. Or why he suddenly had to hunch over against the stabbing pain in his gut.

Dean broke off to give him a worried look.

The duppy, released, immediately shot toward them, decaying features twisted in fury.

"Keep going," Sam gasped, relieved when he was able to straighten again.

Dean, one eye on the threat, did so. The spirit howled in retreat.

Another bolt of pain. It felt like fire in his belly, increasing with every word Dean spoke. This was no coincidence, and even as the thought of what that meant battered at Sam's brain, he reached out blindly, snagging his brother's sleeve both for support and to urge him to continue.

He felt Dean grab his arm, but the words continued. From what Sam could focus on amidst the scouring pain, his brother was almost done.

The duppy screamed again, elongating, twisting, dragged slowly but inexorably out of this world, into the next.

Shocked, Sam realized he was feeling the same pull.

Which couldn't be. Not unless he was what he feared after all his demonic corruptions, after unleashing Lucifer onto the world. Not unless he was _evil_.

Dean was stumbling over the chant, the same realization dawning in his face as he stared at Sam. He trailed off.

And even if the respite made him sob, Sam knew what he had to do. Forcing his lips around each agonizing word, he finished the exorcism.

He'd always known he was corrupted. It shouldn't have surprised him. But even as he closed with _Amen_, what hurt worst in the blaze that consumed him was the confirmation that he was right, and that Dean was witnessing it.

His brother's horrified eyes were the last thing Sam saw.

00000

He was trained to act in emergencies that rooted other people to the ground. But for too long, all Dean could do was stand and stare at where his brother had been.

Sam's scared eyes had been the last thing to go. Whatever had happened to him, whatever he was feeling, was excruciating and terrifying and as incomprehensible to him as it was to Dean. And yet, Sam had finished the exorcism.

The one that made Sam vanish the same time as the duppy.

"Sammy?" Dean murmured almost despite himself as he turned a slow circle in place. Quiet and desperate for Sam to just be invisible, or in the other room or, whatever, not freakin' _exorcised like a freakin' demon to Hell. _Anything.

There was no answer.

Okay. Okay, so, this was…bad. Sam was gone, maybe not exorcised—because that was crazy and impossible, right?—but…not here. But there wasn't a pile of ash in his place, either, or a burned spot, or something to show a violent death. For all Dean knew, Sam was just _transported, _not _gone_. Temporarily misplaced.

In the same moment an evil spirit had been sucked out to where it belonged.

Dean pulled at his hair with one hand, trying to _think. _They'd used a standard exorcism; Judeo-Christian still beat Jamaican hoodoo. An exorcism they'd used a thousand times, though for the life of him, Dean couldn't remember the last time. Regular demons were steering clear of them thanks to Sam's status as Lucifer-to-be, and the angels who weren't so fond of him weren't hurt by the name of God, even if some maybe should have been. Had the last exorcism been the demons the other week in Montana who'd tried to give Sam a little nudge toward saying "yes"? Or the one in that kid terrorizing his family in Washington? Sam hadn't had any trouble there.

Muttering a curse, Dean grabbed the bag and their scattered supplies from the basement they'd lured the duppy into, and headed for the stairs.

Okay, so, yes, Dean had had a few dark thoughts about whether his brother was still good post-demon blood addiction and release of Lucifer and breaking the _world. _But they were the same fears he knew Sam himself entertained and that, truth be told, Dean didn't believe. His brother had done something stupid out of grief and loss. Had tried his hardest to make up for it. Had even brought Dean back from the brink. There wasn't any more evil in the guy than in every other poor son of a bitch they met in the world, or in Dean himself. Nothing that would make him suddenly susceptible to an _exorcism. _

Dean tossed their supplies into the back of the Impala and took off without a backward glance at the house. He was already dialing Bobby and, phone jammed between shoulder and ear, digging out the journals from his duffel in the back seat. Not like Dad or Daniel's or his own notes had anything on duppies, but there was a whole heaping lot on exorcisms, and Dean was about to become an expert.

Because one thing Dean was clear about in this huge crapfest: he was getting his brother back.

Bobby confirmed on the way to the motel what Dean had already thought: exorcisms don't banish real people, ever. Even a corrupted soul still housed in its original body would just vacate the body to be sent off to Hell. So either Sam hadn't disappeared because of the exorcism—and Dean didn't believe in coincidence—or…

It hadn't been Sam. Not really.

Except, Dean knew his brother. Even after the demon blood, and the powers, and the betrayal, he _knew _Sam. He knew when Sam had been sorry to the core, when all his apologies had unbalanced him so much that he'd taken a stand, when he'd looked at Dean with such belief that Dean couldn't give in to Michael. He knew that, even now, Sam was thinking of sacrificing himself by letting Lucifer in so Sam could overcome him. There was no way some sort of shapeshifting bad guy had replaced Sam and Dean hadn't known it, hadn't even suspected it.

When would that even have happened? They hadn't split up on this case, talking to witnesses and running down leads together. Some part of Dean knew these might be the last days he'd be spending with his brother and hadn't wanted to miss any of it. So unless it was when Sam went to the restroom in the crowded diner, or…

Dean revved the engine and spun out of the motel parking lot without ever having gotten out of the car. He had an idea: a really lousy, unhappy idea.

Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the shop. The Caribbean market had fronted for the criminal enterprises of one Devon Smith, a.k.a. their duppy. The Winchesters had been there the day before to talk to Roje, Smith's deputy. Where Sam had begged off to go "wash his hands" for a minute and poke around while Dean and Roje talked. Sam had looked and acted normal when he'd returned, but Roje's parting smirk took on a whole new sinister light now.

Jaw clenched, Dean climbed out of the car, pulling his handgun in one motion.

It was pushing one a.m.; the market was long closed. Didn't matter. Dean went around the building and carefully tried the door at the back. Somehow he wasn't too surprised when it turned out to be unlocked. He crept into the dark back room, gun up and ready.

He saw the glint of the older man's eyes first, barely reflecting in the thin light from outside.

"You're back."

"Left something here." He aimed dead between the eyes.

They didn't move, the voice beneath amused. "That so?"

"My brother—where is he?"

"You sent him away," Roje said flatly.

It took Dean a second to realize he was talking about Smith. "Like the demon he was."

Those polished eyes finally moved, heaving up and then a step closer. "My brother wasn't a demon. No more'an yours was."

That made Dean blink. He thought Roje worked for Smith; he hadn't realized they were brothers. Not that it made it a difference. Gripping the gun tighter, he repeated his demand. "Where's my brother?"

"'Figure, same place mine is." And there was the reflection of teeth now, too, a bared grin. Just before Roje moved.

Dean didn't hesitate; he fired six rounds to the left of where the man had been standing, where his eyes had darted a minute before and which direction he'd started to move. Whatever was there, Roje couldn't be allowed to get his hands on it.

There was a shout, and the thud of a body collapsing. Then silence.

Dean didn't lower his weapon, aim unwavering as he took two steps backward to the doorway. There, he felt for a light switch, and squinted as the bright storeroom lights came on.

Roje lay bloody and dead just a foot away from the desk that had been covered with papers the day before but now held an array of occult paraphernalia. Dean barely gave it a glance as he crept close and leaned down to check for a pulse. None. Good; he felt no guilt about this one. He straightened, gun finally at half-mast but still ready—Roje probably did his mojo alone, but no telling if he had a deputy, too—and called out, "Sam!"

Nothing but the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

Well, it wasn't like he was expecting Sam to just be sitting around waiting for him to be summoned. Dean leashed the worry and started a thorough search of the room.

He found Sam in the third closet he checked. His heart stopped for a moment at the sight.

Sam looked like he was lying where he'd been dumped, head propped uncomfortably against the wall, one arm flung back, hair in his face. He wasn't bound and yet he wasn't moving, and the vacancy in his half-open eyes dropped Dean to his knees, feeling with suddenly shaky hands for a pulse.

There, steady and strong. Breath whooshing out, Dean slid his hand up to Sam's cheek, giving it a tap. "Sam? Hey."

No response. Both his hands were patting Sam down now, looking for injuries. But there weren't any, not even a lump on the head. Just…absence.

Like a missing, exorcised soul?

Jaw clenching, Dean shuffled back up to Sam's head, cradling it in both palms.

"Sammy. You in there? C'mon, man, give me a sign or something."

And Sam, good little brother that he was, obeyed, jerking to life and sucking in a deep breath.

Startled, Dean still didn't hesitate to grab him before his head could thunk back against the wall, bending down to peer into confused eyes. "Hey. Sam? You with me?"

"With you," Sam echoed, even though confusion still clouded his features. His hands, flailing briefly, settled on the floor and the edge of Dean's jacket. "I…Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me. You okay? Anything hurt, feel wrong?"

"Uh…no?" He still looked like he was trying to wake up. "Where…?"

"Devon Smith's market. Remember the duppy?" From Sam's expression, that would be a no. Dean decided he wouldn't worry about it right now, not while Sam was still coming out of it. "I'll tell you later. You ready to come out of the closet?" Dean asked with a half-grin.

"What?"

"Never mind. C'mon, let's get out of here." He used his double-fisted grip on Sam's shirt to help haul him to his feet and out into the storeroom.

Sam blinked owlishly in the light but followed his lead, barely pausing as they passed Roje's body on the way to the door.

"Is that…?"

"Yup." Okay, things seemed to be coming back. That was good. Probably.

Then Sam stopped. "Wait. Was I… Did I…?" And as Dean glanced at him, he could track his brother's memories in his expressions, from recognition, to anger as he remembered however he'd ended up here…and then he went pale. The exorcism?

Dean turned so they were face-to-face, hand on Sam's jaw, focusing his brother completely on him. "Hey. Everything's good, Sammy, okay? I promise. Let's get back to the motel and we'll work it out."

Sam looked just this side of distraught, but after a second he nodded.

"Okay," Dean answered for both of them, and wrapped his arm back around his brother's waist to lead him out the door. "We got this."

It was a lot easier to believe with Sam standing right next to him.

00000

Dean made him eat first—and, okay, Sam was starving and ate all his pad thai and most of his brother's satay, along with about a quart of orange juice—and then pushed him to take a nap. Sam had fully planned a protest, but he was pretty sure he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, because suddenly he was dreaming.

His fingers were glowing. Dean looked distressed. Sarah—Sarah Blake, whom he hadn't seen for years—was telling him to stop something, and Lucifer laughed in the background. There was also a clown eating spaghetti, but that just seemed like his brain messing with him.

Sam woke with a sharp exhale, to the familiar and comforting sound of Dean's voice outside the door.

He was on the phone with someone—Bobby, Sam quickly realized—and, after another half-minute, Sam gleaned enough to know they were talking about him. He quickly pushed to his feet, rode out the head-rush, and, after a quick detour to the bathroom, stumbled to the front door, flinging it open.

Dean turned, eyes dragging up and down Sam's body to make sure he was in one piece, lingering a moment on his face, then holding up a finger for _wait a minute. _

"…Yeah, that sounds about right…Okay…" Another glance at Sam. "He just woke up." To Sam. "You feel okay? Nothing…weird?"

Sam hadn't done a self-assessment, but he'd been possessed/influenced/enchanted/traumatized enough to know immediately if something was wrong. He shook his head.

Dean was back on the phone. "He says he's good. _Looks _like Bigfoot on a bad hair day, but…" He ducked Sam's swat effortlessly. "…you know, that's, like, every day."

Sam self-consciously ran hands through hair that did seem dismayingly fluffy.

"Okay, sounds good. Thanks, Bobby." Dean keyed his phone off and stuck it in his pocket. "Bobby says hi. And, be grateful you have hair, but I don't know about that."

Sam scowled at him, then turned his face up into the—late afternoon?—sun. "What time is it?"

"Close to five." At Sam's startled glance, Dean raised his hands calmingly. "Hey, you needed the sleep. Whatever Roje did must've taken a lot out of you."

And there it was. Sam tried not to sound as fearful as he felt when he said, "What _did _Roje do?"

Because he'd thought about it during the ride back to the motel, and dinner, and apparently even in his dreams. _Good_ was not vulnerable to exorcisms. _Good _was a part of you, not something you could separate out, not like possession or taint or influence. Not like what was in his blood and, doubtless, his soul.

Dean was frowning at him, but he just nodded toward something behind Sam.

Sam turned, confused, to see two lawn chairs in the corner of their small balcony. He gave Dean a _Seriously? _lift of the eyebrows, and Dean made a show of looking around the almost empty parking lot. There wasn't anyone around to hear them. And maybe Dean thought this news would be easier to take in the warm sun, Sam thought depressingly.

They settled into the chairs, Sam slouched in his, Dean quickly putting his feet up on the railing and retrieving from beneath his seat a beer he'd apparently started earlier. "So, I did some digging, and Bobby an' I pieced it together."

Sam braced himself.

"A duppy's like a displaced evil spirit, right? A 'demonic manifestation of the soul,' Bobby says."

Sam nodded slowly. Dean seemed like he was looking at his car, but Sam knew his brother was aware of Sam's every reaction.

"But some Jamaican lore calls it the 'earthly soul.'"

Sam frowned. "What—?"

"Dude, let me finish." Dean sat up as he warmed to his story, eyes now on Sam. "So, the lore goes, you have two souls: the good soul and the earthly soul. When you die, the good soul goes to Heaven or whatever to be judged, and the earthly soul hangs around in your body for a couple of days until, uh, I guess it rots. But if it gets away, it turns into a duppy."

This part he knew; they had figured out Devon Smith's death had left his soul as a duppy. The "good soul" part, however, had never come up.

"So, near as we can figure, Devon dies, goes the duppy route thanks to his brother's mojo, then we come along to mess up the plan, so Roje springs some trap he probably already had set up and whammies you with the duppy curse, too. Only, you're not dead, so your 'earthly soul' stays put and your 'good soul' shows up, pretending to be you."

Sam's gaze turned inward, searching his memory. "I really thought it was me. Like one minute I was there and everything was normal, next, the exorcism's turning me inside out." He looked up at his brother, fear stripped bare. "Why did the exorcism affect me, then, if I was this, uh, 'good soul.'"

Dean pointed at him. "Because you _were _a soul." Off Sam's obvious bafflement, he continued, "The whole soul-splitting thing, it came from bad juju, man. Even if the soul's pure, it doesn't belong wandering around without its skin. Far as Bobby an' me can tell, the exorcism picked up on that and sent your soul back to where it belonged."

"My body," Sam breathed.

Dean nodded. "Not Hell, not like ol' Devon. So," and he grinned around the neck of his beer, "not evil."

Sam sorted through the logic, wanting it to be true but fearing Dean and Bobby were covering for him. But it made sense. He hadn't been dragged down to Hell. And Roje had obviously done _something _to him; Sam couldn't even remember how he'd ended up in that closet. He'd probably just needed the shock of Dean's arrival to snap him out of it even once his soul returned. He took a breath, raised his eyebrows. "So…you were walking around with my soul for, what, better part of a _day_, and you didn't notice?"

"Hey, it was _you,_" Dean said defensively. "It's not like you were see-through, or a ghoul pretending to be you or anything. Though, come to think of it, not sure I saw you eat anything. Not like that's anything new, though."

Sam rolled his eyes; like _nutrition_ was what he was worried about.

Dean leaned in, utterly serious now. "Dude, you're not evil. I know you worry about it, what Azazel did, the whole blood-drinking thing, letting out Lucifer. But all the Shining stuff, that got burned out of you, right? And the rest, you're workin' on making it right. _We're_ working on it. We're gonna fix it."

"And what if I have to say yes to Lucifer to do that?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Dean's jaw flexed; Sam had already raised the subject and his brother hadn't fought him on it, but it clearly wasn't an idea he'd ever be okay with. "Then we deal with that when we get to it," Dean finally said. "But even if it does come to that, it would only work because you're a good man, Sam, okay? Probably the 'Righteous Man' Hell wanted downstairs in the first place, until I made the switch."

A year ago, he would've just thought Dean wasn't being objective, believing in him like this, or, worse, that his big brother's moral compass was as broken as the rest of him. But in that last year, Sam had succumbed to addiction, betrayed Dean, and kickstarted the Apocalypse. He hadn't even been sure for a while that Dean could ever forgive him. But that made the way his brother was looking at him now, like he believed every word he was saying, like he was even friggin' _proud_ of Sam, mean all the more.

Sam took a breath, knuckling his eyes, and gave a wet laugh when he felt Dean push his own beer bottle into Sam's hand. He took a swig and handed it back, eyeing Dean sideways. "'Good man,' huh?"

"Good man who's _paying for dinner_," Dean emphasized cheerfully.

Sam laughed again. "Yeah, all right." A beat, and he shoved to his feet. "Hoagies?"

"Dude, we're in New England—it's 'grinders' here."

"Right." Sam paused, then reached out to thump Dean's shoulder before turning to go back to the room. "Tell Bobby thanks for me, huh?"

His brother's steady gaze, warm with the knowledge of what Sam was saying thanks for and to whom, was the last thing he saw before he went inside.

**The End**


End file.
